October 1944 was a relatively quiet month in terms of shipping losses with 10 vessels reported lost during that month, none to war causes (e.g. torpedo, mine). In fact it was the weather that seems to have been the major factor for most of them, although the loss of LCP(L) 52, a Landing Craft Personnel (Large), was attributed to foundering following a fire in the Solent on 11 October.
Barge Norman sank off the Kent coast on 7 October, and another barge, Congo, is reported as having similarly sunk off the Essex coast on 13 October. LCT(A) 2454(Landing Craft Tank, Armoured) was forced ashore in wind conditions SW 4, freshening to force 5, on Chesil Beach, Dorset, on the latter date. [1]
Things were not looking good for vessels of shallow draught in high seas in autumn gales.
In a previous edition for November 1943 we looked at the collective loss of several landing craft from a single convoy off the Isles of Scilly. Almost a year later, a similar tragedy occurred with convoy KMS 66 (UK–Mediterranean Slow), which set out from the Clyde on 14 October 1944, with some LCTs under tow by the merchants in the convoy, a mixture of British, Belgian and Norwegian vessels. Further vessels joined convoy from Belfast the next day, and Liverpool and Milford Haven the day after, as the convoy steamed south out of the Irish Sea.
On 18 October 1944 KMS 66 ran into trouble off Land’s End in wind conditions reported at 6am that morning as WSW force 7 at the Lizard, W x S force 6 off the Isles of Scilly. [2] At 10.50 Nairnbank, which was towing LCT 494and LCT 7014, reported that contact had been lost with the former. [3]
By 12 the conditions had worsened to WSW force 8 at the Lizard, SW x W force 7 at the Isles of Scilly.
All hell subsequently broke loose over the next 24 hours. Calls for assistance were made from the foundering LCTs, towing merchants reported on the status of their ‘children’ and issued commands, orders were issued to escorts and merchants to search for the LCTs and assist in rescue, widening beyond the immediate convoy to other convoys in the area, and contact repeatedly made with the Admiralty and Commander-in-Chief Western Approaches. It was a frantic period. [4]
At 6pm conditions were force 8 from both the Lizard and the Isles of Scilly but it is also stated elsewhere that conditions were force 9. [5] Conditions remained similar at midnight and 6am the next day (19 October) abating somewhat towards the Isles of Scilly. The weather abated further over the course of the evening but by midnight of 19/20 October LCTs480, 488, 491, and 7014 had either foundered or been sunk following rescue efforts, and LCTs 494and 7015 remained unaccounted for. There were men lost from all of these vessels, from other LCTs which, however, survived the incident, and from rescuing vessels.
History has a nasty habit of repeating itself and never more so than on this occasion, which was almost a carbon copy of the events of November 1943.
It seems that one of the LCTs lost in this incident may have been discovered, as reported by Royal Navy News in 2023, while LCT 7074 survives in preservation and is open to the public.
Every wreck in wartime is part of a bigger picture connected with military events elsewhere: very often the wrecks covered in this blog were lost when the seas around Britain became a theatre of war in their own right – the offensive effort against Britain.
There is, however, often a global dimension and even as some ships went down in English waters there was still a connection to events elsewhere.
We associate landing craft with the June 1944 D-Day landings in Normandy, and this is, of course, correct, but the sheer scale of D-Day has tended to obscure the role of landing craft in other theatres of war at an earlier date. For example, landing craft served in Operations Corkscrew (Pantelleria), Husky (Sicily), and Avalanche (Salerno) during the Allied invasion of Italy over summer 1943.
James Routledge, electrician aboard LCT 318, recorded what happened next to the craft which took part in the Italian landings: ‘In October 1943, when in Taranto, we were recalled to our base in North Africa . . . after which we took passage to Algiers . . .Such was the secrecy about our next assignment that speculation was rife, the most likely outcomes being home or the Far East.’ [1]
A convoy of 24 landing craft [some sources state that the convoy was 30 strong [2]] set out from Gibraltar on 3 or 4 November 1943 and after a period of calm weather for several days encountered Force 9 gales off the Bay of Biscay, scattering the convoy, during which time two men were lost overboard on passage.
[Exactly one year later in 1944, my own father would be on passage in the reverse direction in convoy KMF 36 (UK–Mediterranean Fast) under similar conditions of secrecy – also believing he would be sent to the Far East – and of rough weather off Biscay, gloomily contemplating the possibility of being lost overboard, which he described to me as ‘the loneliest feeling in the world’.] [3]
October 1943’s LCT convoy is very unlikely to have sailed as a convoy of landing craft alone. The LCTs do not seem to be listed in convoy records, but it is not unknown for omissions in such records to occur, sometimes for operational secrecy, and convoy MKS 29G (Mediterreanean-UKSlow ex Gibraltar) would fit the bill as it left Gibraltar for Liverpool on 3 November, even though apparently without LCTs. It is the right date of departure from the right port and the right type of convoy, i.e. slow. [4]
There is more detail available for Convoy MKS 30, which left Port Said, Egypt, on 2 November 1943, arriving at Gibraltar on 13 November, and en route picked up a group of Landing Ship Tanks from Oran, Algeria, bound for the UK, so it seems likely that ‘our’ convoy fits into that framework of landing craft movements from the Mediterranean around that time, and again it is a ‘slow’ convoy. [5]
LCT 318became detached from the convoy and had to resort to hand-pumping fuel to the engines and navigating ‘in the general direction of where we thought England should be’. They continued in this fashion for a few more days until a Short Sunderland flying boat, out on a mission, encountered LCT 318and put them on the correct course. Ten days out from Gibraltar, still battling the storm at sea, LCT 318 fetched up on a beach at St. Mary’s, Isles of Scilly. [6]
It was one of five which were able to beach on the Isles of Scilly: Routledge’s account includes a dramatic photograph of LCT 354aground on the rocks at Newford Island, St. Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, but these were temporary groundings. Three vessels of this convoy did not make it, however, and were overwhelmed on either the 13th or 14th November: LCT 333, LCT 343and LCT 385 all foundered in a gale off Land’s End or ‘in heavy weather in the SW Approaches’ as the report to the War Cabinet had it. [7]
The report to the War Cabinet noted these losses as taking place on the 13th; elsewhere they are recorded on the 14th. [8] When this sort of date discrepancy occurs, it suggests that the loss took place overnight between one day and another, most likely in the small hours. LCT 318 had lost radio contact and it is reasonable to assume that several of the others would also have done so in those conditions, and the convoy was scattered without witnesses necessarily being nearby. With the immediate thought of saving life rather than record-keeping, it is quite understandable that times and dates recorded by survivors or rescuers would be ‘out’ or unspecific, but at least on this occasion can be tied to sometime between dusk on 13 November and dawn on 14 November.
This would seem to be borne out by Routledge’s testimony in LCT 318: ‘At dusk . . . land was sighted. A suitable beach was identified and, in near dark, we ran up the beach . . . the next morning we discovered we had landed on St. Mary’s.’
Met Office observations for 1800 GMT on 13 November 1943 reveal that off the Isles of Scilly conditions were NNW force 8 and a gale warning was in force ‘in all districts’. Conditions at NW force 7 were little better at 0100 on 14 November and remained constant at NW x N force 7 at 0700, NW 7 at 1300, decreasing to NNW 6 at 1800 that day. [9]
It seems sad that after battling much worse conditions at force 9 for so many days that LCT 333, 343 and 385 finally succumbed in force 7 winds just as they were so very nearly home, but this is not an uncommon story for many of the shipwrecks around our coastline. Very often it happens in force 7, as here (we know of over 500 wrecks recorded as lost in force 7 ‘near gale’ conditions) [10] and frequently, too, after a sustained battle with the elements over a very difficult voyage.
If the pumps became overwhelmed and the crew exhausted, and with signs of stress on the hull, the outcome was often inevitable for any vessel and unsurprisingly so for a Landing Craft Tank. As described by Lt Commander Maxwell O Miller RN, who would command I Squadron of Landing Craft at D-Day, a landing craft was:
of very shallow draught and flat-bottomed so that she had very little hold on the water . . . it had never been the intention that they should be lived in. They had originally been designed to work from shore bases in the south of England and to be manned just long enough to enable them to run across the Channel, dump their loads, and come back again. [11]
In this case, there appears to have been no loss of life other than the men lost overboard earlier in the voyage, but the landing craft of convoy OS 92/KMS 66 (Outbound South/UK–Mediterranean Slow) in October 1944, also in a gale off Land’s End, would be far less fortunate, and their story will be told in that instalment of the War Diary next year.
[2] Larn R & Larn B 1995 Shipwreck Index of the British Isles: Vol. 1 Isles of Scilly, Cornwall, Devon, Dorset (London: Lloyd’s of London Press)
[3] Cant, R, 2012 unpublished oral history reminiscence, recorded and documented by Serena Cant
[4] The LCT Mk III made 10 knots, however it wasn’t only the achievable top speed, but also the range, voyage distance and type of ship that needed to be factored in. In 1943 there were no friendly ports on the European coastline between Gibraltar and the UK for convoys to refuel – they had to be capable of sustaining the voyage between the Mediterranean and the UK with the fuel that they had. My father’s ship was the proverbial ‘slowest ship in the convoy’ but could make 15 knots at top speed so it looks as if she were eligible to join a fast convoy, even if he recorded that he looked with envy at the Stirling Castle, also in his convoy, at 20 knots.
[6] Larn R & Larn B 1995 Shipwreck Index of the British Isles: Vol. 1 Isles of Scilly, Cornwall, Devon, Dorset (London: Lloyd’s of London Press); https://www.combinedops.com/HMLCT%20318.htm
[7]Weekly Résumé No.220 of the Naval, Military & Air Situation from 0700 11th November to 0700 18th November, 1943, part of the War Cabinet Papers, CAB 66, The National Archives, Kew
[8]British Vessels Lost at Sea 1914-18 and 1939-45, Section III, p54 [London: HMSO]
[9] Met Office 1943 Daily Weather Report November 1943, 13 and 14 November 1943 online
[10] Historic England wreck data
[11] Miller, M nd “Landing Craft Tank Squadron – Sword Beach, D Day”, Combined Operations published online
In the autumn of 1840 two French brigs left their mark on history in very different ways. One was witness to a key historical moment, the other an unusual tale of survival against all odds. The brig was, in many ways, the characteristic vessel type of the 19th century, sturdy, strong, and adaptable, and accounts for some 7% of our shipwreck records.
The first was the naval brig L’Oreste, detached from the French Levant (Mediterranean) squadron for St. Helena, where she witnessed the translation of the mortal remains of Napoleon Bonaparte aboard La Belle Poule. L’Oreste then accompanied La Belle Poule and La Favorite out of St. Helena on 18 October 1840, and as she set her course for the Mediterranean, La Belle Poule and La Favorite continued north for Cherbourg with the ashes of Napoleon Bonaparte, to be translated to Les Invalides, Paris, where they have lain ever since.
The other vessel was the commercial brig Nérina which left Dunkirk for Marseille on 30 October 1840 with a crew of 7, including the captain’s teenage nephew, and a cargo of oil and canvas. What happened next was an incredible feat of survival. The English correspondent assured his readers that it was no ‘Yankee story’ but, as a local resident, had seen the people and events described with his own eyes. (1) In a similar vein, his French counterpart stated that he had both met with the survivors and had obtained a souvenir account of the event printed under the auspices of Richard Pearce, vice-consul at Penzance, as an aide-memoire ‘lest my story be ridiculed’. (2) [The story can be followed in French here.]
The wind was set fair for her voyage with a favourable breeze, but in the English Channel a typical autumn squall set in, as the wind suddenly backed to the south-east. Thereafter the Nérina beat up Channel with extreme difficulty against contrary winds, taking 15 days to reach the Lizard. The wind increased, and the exhausted crew viewed with dismay the fierce Atlantic breakers crashing onto the shore as they passed Land’s End.
They had reached a position some 12 nautical miles south-west of the ‘Sorlingues’ [the French name for the Isles of Scilly] when a heavy sea struck their vessel, which capsized suddenly, sweeping one man off the deck, never to be seen again. ‘The vessel in a moment turned completely over, not allowing time for the water to run into her, by which means the internal air kept the water out.’ (3) This describes what we would now know today as an air pocket.
Three seamen were in the forecastle, of whom one was drowned as he lost his grip, while the other two managed to keep their heads above the rising water and wriggle through a gap, making their way towards voices in the stern cabin, where the master, his nephew, and the mate had been when the ship capsized. The mate had managed to open a hatch into a watertight space and clear away some stores, then helped the master and the boy through the gap. The other two men from the forecastle followed them, and there the five managed to survive for the ensuing three days and nights, with no sustenance or space to stand up, and the air beginning to run out in that confined space. They gained some idea of the passage of time through seeing daylight striking upon the sea being reflected up through the cabin skylight, which, of course, was now below them, and then through the hatchway.
South-west of the Isles of Scilly, they were on course to drift out into the Atlantic, where they must inevitably have perished. They were completely unaware of what happened next, and, as a French journalist wrote, perhaps it was as well that it was so, or they would have suffered even greater agonies of alternating hope and despair than they were already experiencing, although the captain tried his best to maintain their morale. In the meantime the resourceful mate was trying to carve out a hole in the hull in an effort to gain some more air, but his knife broke before he was able to break through (very fortunately, or the water would have rushed in).
Two fishing vessels returning to St. Mary’s spotted crowds of birds gathering over a dark whale-like shape in the water off St. Agnes, and decided to investigate. They found it to be an upturned hull and attempted to take it in tow, but the tow rope broke, and they were forced to abandon the attempt as the weather worsened, not having the least idea that there was anyone on board the derelict.
The attempted tow had, however, taken the vessel out of the currents carrying her inexorably into the Atlantic. In the middle of the night the vessel bumped bows on to the rocks at Porthellick, St. Mary’s, was clawed back by the tide, and again flung onto the rocks, each time more violently. The five survivors were forced to crawl forward as best they could to avoid the rising water, although one man fell lost his footing and drowned. The other four continued on to the ship’s side, where they were able to peer through a hole in the side.
At daybreak a fisherman was out on the beach, and like his fellow fishermen off St. Agnes, he was attracted to the dark shape on the rocks which he could only dimly discern. He clambered down the rocks to investigate, and, spotting the hole, put his arm into it. He received what must have been the shock of his life when the captain eagerly gripped his arm, and hurriedly pulled clear, but as they cried out to him, he grasped the situation and ran back to get help.
Soon the four survivors were pulled out by willing hands and restored with a breakfast and a sound sleep. The dead man, entangled in the shrouds when he was washed out of the vessel, was interred in a simple service, attended by his compatriots: this is most likely to have taken place at St. Mary’s Old Church, Old Town, St. Mary’s, which had until 1838 been the principal parish church of the island and was closest to where the ship had fetched up (now Grade II* listed). The hull broke up almost immediately, as the tide returned, but 50 barrels of oil are recorded as having been saved. (4) The survivors were later waved off from St. Mary’s to begin their journey home via Penzance, thanks to the good offices of Pearce as vice-consul.
The various accounts contain minor discrepancies, not at all unusual for shipwreck reports, gleaned from traumatised survivors and compounded by language difficulties, but the level of detail which made it into the English press suggests that it had been possible to relay the story via an interpreter – again suggesting Richard Pearce’s possible involvement.
In over 20 years’ recording our shipwrecks and reading extraordinary stories of survival and rescue on the coast of England, this is the only air pocket survival I have encountered. A story that seemed almost incredible in the Victorian era has at least two modern parallels, the well-documented rescues of Tony Bullimore in the Southern Ocean in 1997 and Harrison Okene off Nigeria in 2013.
(1)Morning Post, 4 December 1840, No.21,806, and widely reproduced in other UK newspapers
